Friday, June 15, 2012

Cramming 5 years' worth of Dubai life into one 90-minute storytelling presentation is
of course impossible. I had three jobs
while I was there: two lasting 18 months a-piece, the final one lasting 2
years. More than enough happened at each
job to warrant three separate shows, and that's not including the social life,
about which I could tell stories all day.
Worked hard, played hard! DINNER
IN DUBAI, therefore, comprises carefully chosen highlights from the 5-year
stretch, tales powerful enough to stand alone and be told individually with
equal entertainment value.

However, I thought I'd include some of the shorter pieces on my blog
because they're too funny, too poignant or too culturally interesting to be lost in
time. They'll appeal mostly to Dubai folks choosing to reminisce with me but I hope
they'll also give an idea of expat life in Dubai
as it was 25 years ago to those who've ever wondered about living in the UAE.

My letters to my family in England are so detailed, they act
as a diary. Here's the story of my first
visit to the well-known (and still open) RAVI'S
RESTAURANT on Al Diyafah Street
in Satwa. It was December 1987. I'd only been in Dubai 3 months when
this took place.

"I worked at the hotel (Jebel Ali
Hotel) until 7:30 p.m. -- an 11-hour day, Mum, an 11-HOUR DAY! -- then caught
the 8:00 guest bus into Dubai
town. I got off at the Hilton and went
to Humphreys Bar to wait for Bernie #1. Everyone calls me Berni #2!

Bernie took me to Thatchers -- what a dreadful name for a
bar -- in the Dubai Marine Hotel to meet a crowd of her friends, teachers from Dubai College. I spent the evening talking to a chap called
Ian (geography teacher). We trooped into
Cavaliers, the nightclub upstairs, which is closing down this Saturday to make
room for another Chinese restaurant. It
was full of young drunks and was most definitely not my cup of tea. Bernie wanted to stay and had her own car so
Ian and his brother David (on holiday here) took me to Ravi's,
a famous restaurant in expat circles -- I use the term "restaurant"
loosely! Ian said, "You'll love
it!" but it's actually very like the kind of place we used to find in Libya. Spit and sawdust! There are no loos -- staff, customers and
local dogs all use the same grubby sink for hand-washing, dish-washing and whatever
local dogs do. First course was curry
gravy with sort-of chapattis which looked like dirty flannels (washcloths) and tasted rather
similar, I imagine. Second course was sheep brains
all mashed up in a milky sauce which I couldn't bring myself to taste. Third course was burnt chicken. We had water in stainless steel goblets which
looked pretty stained to me. There was
no choice and no menu. You sit down and
they serve you, that's it and all about it.
It's Ian's favourite restaurant so I doubt I'll be going out with him
again!

Afterwards, however, Ian took David (he's a tourist) and me
(God knows what I am) to the side of the restaurant where they were turning
lumps of dough into those funny chapatti things. They let me have a go. The 'chef' spread the dough on to a cushion
(for want of a better description) then gave me the cushion and I had to lean
down into a huge hole with a fire at the bottom and thrust the pancaked dough
on to the wall of the hole. One minute
later, the 'chef' tore the pancake off the wall with tongs and there you have
it...one chapatti. I think I lost all
the hair on my arms and eyebrows but it was worth it!

They dropped me off at the Hilton Apartments where I caught
a taxi back to The Shacks (aka the Jebel Ali Hotel Management Housing Complex). What a fascinating evening!"

Friday, June 1, 2012

You know those days when you can't do anything, when you're so lethargic, you can barely hold your
eyelids open, let alone a viable conversation?
I've been feeling that way today.
I wondered why. And then I
remembered. Yesterday.

In the morning, I performed a favorite gig: Urban Legends, 6th
grade, Hill Country Middle School,
last day of school. You couldn't find a
more frenzied bunch of kids but it was fun.
Tired but pleased, I came home to find Tile-guy at the door, ready to
replace the tiles on the master bathroom wall around the tub. A new tub was put in a year ago but it was
faulty; Home Depot gave a refund but didn't want to know about
removal of said tub. A second new tub
was bought; different plumbers had just taken out the first new one and put in this
second. Tile-guy took one look at the
newly installed tub and said, "Crooked." He pulled out an enormous level, set it down. "Crooked both ways. Call your tub-guy." He went to lunch. Tub-guy came back and got out his level, a
much smaller one, set it down. "Straight,"
he said. Actually, it wasn't straight;
it was off just a tiny bit. "Make no
difference," he said. "Is
fine. Call Tile-guy back." Then he pointed out that, although the tub box claimed the second tub was the same size as the first, it wasn't. He measured it and was right -- 1" shorter. "Tile-guy
problem," he said. I forced him to
wait while I called and insisted Tile-guy come talk to Tub-guy. Did I mention that Tub-guy is Latino with
only a little English? Disgruntled, he waited
on the toilet seat (lid down).
Tile-guy came back, fully armed with his huge level. Smiling (patronizing), he showed Tub-guy
where he was going wrong. Tub-guy, ashamed of his small level, pointed out the problem as he saw it, showing
Tile-guy how to do his job. Tile-guy
said: "Raise the tub an inch!"
Tub-guy said: "Use tile-guy skill!" After 15 minutes, I shouted, "Stop! Act like grown-ups! Sort it out!" Actually, I said, "Tub-guy, cheat the bath
up a little. Tile-guy, cheat the tile
application a little. Now play
nice." Tile guy said he'd return in
the morning and left. Tub-guy raised the tub
and left. Everyone was really unhappy. I was exhausted.

I then spent 90 minutes investigating a good price and
booking my plane ticket to UK
only to find an Expedia computer error in the booking. I called Expedia to cancel the first booking
and book a second. Nice lady. Indian.
In India. Neither of us could understand a word the
other said. An hour and a half later, it
was done...3 hours to book 1 flight. I
now await the refund...

By this time, it was 7:00.
A little disgruntled myself and as I'd missed tea-time, I went straight
to the gin. Drink in hand, I sat
down to unwind. A hippily-clad young
lady walked to my door with a clipboard.
Please, no! I can't talk to
anyone else, I just can't. But she was
working and I was resting so I felt bad.
She wanted to talk about Walmart recycling electronics which I totally
support so I smiled, took a breath, signed her petition, thanked her for
working when I was resting.

Before I'd had time to take another sip, I saw my
across-the-street neighbor pull into my driveway. NO, NO, NO!!!
Go away, I can't talk...I can't communicate...I can't... But he beckoned me to come out to his
van. I tried to make my house-mate go but the neighbor shook his head and pointed at me. I smiled -- honestly, more of a grimace -- took a deep breath, grabbed my
G&T (I wasn't going without it this time!) and went outside. I was ready to slap him but he reached into
his van and pulled out...an gigantic bunch of flowers. His van was full of flowers. He'd been doing some work at a flower shop
and they'd given him all their leftovers which would otherwise be tossed. He gave me enough to fill three
vases which surround me as I write: gladioli, daisies, carnations. And so I learn, for the trillionth time: Never
give up on your day! NEVER give up on
your day! It can get better in a moment!

Dear Blog Friend

My mum (in England) and I (wherever I happened to be living) used to write each other every week...snail-mail letters, of course. When we both got computers and email became popular, we wrote every day...about everything, from the weather to what our neighbors were doing, from the political situation to popular shows on the telly. When she died, not only did I miss my lovely mum, I missed our regular written conversations; and I lost my daily writing fix. Now I admit the messages were sometimes ridiculously banal but they were often hilarious and always fun to receive. So to start with at least, I'm going to imagine my blog is a note to my mum in the hope that you'll like reading it as much I liked reading her notes to me.